


Vicious Healing

by fitz_y



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Canon, Angst, F/F, F/M, Femslash, Healer!Morgana, Het, Team Smirk, War, Warrior!Morgana, Warrior!Morgause
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-01
Updated: 2011-05-01
Packaged: 2017-10-24 22:28:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/268571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fitz_y/pseuds/fitz_y
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Death is her gift.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Vicious Healing

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this piece last fall when I felt like experimenting with writing for Team Smirk. It was meant to be a cross between a future fic that references events in series 3 and a canon-era au that rewrites Morgana’s characterization in series 3. The funny thing is that it ended up overlapping with the finale in a few of ways—Morgana taking the crown, an immortal army serving her. So I guess it could be best described as an alternate way the series 3 finale could have played out. My portrayal of Morgana as a healer was partially inspired by [](http://www.dreamwidth.org/profile?user=zahrawithaz)[**zahrawithaz**](http://www.dreamwidth.org/profile?user=zahrawithaz) ’s informative and well-written [History of the Arthurian Legends in Ten Easy Steps (with Recommended Reading)](http://zahrawithaz.livejournal.com/24528.html) in which she discusses early depictions of Morgana as a healer for Arthur’s army. Many thanks to the beta of my heart [](http://yllenk.livejournal.com/profile)[**yllenk**](http://yllenk.livejournal.com/). All remaining mistakes are my own.  And yes, that’s a Buffy reference in my summary and no this is not a Buffy crossover. Although it would be awesome if it were.

[][][]

 _The Siege of Camelot.  
Day 72.  
Beyond the castle walls._

Morgana lifted her face to the uniform grey above her, feeling the rain trace fleeting paths down her warm skin. It fell persistently. She fluttered her eyelids closed and pursed her lips, standing perfectly still, offering herself up to the downpour, willing the rain to seep under her skin and wash away her bone weariness.

To her right, a weak voice called out, and she turned to look at the two men by the hissing, dying campfire. One was stretched out on the ground; his remaining brown eye fixed her unwaveringly. The other fidgeted above him. She strode to them, marching past a line of sleeping tents, her frayed green velvet cape marking tracks in the mud behind her.

The left side of his face was nothing more than a block of raw meat: dried blood, matted hair, a swollen puss-filled wound where his other eye had been, the bottom half of his face slashed away to reveal an exposed hunk of jawbone.

The standing man watched Morgana’s approach. “My apologies, my lady. I wanted to move him into the tent away from the rain, but I think he was hoping to get a glimpse of you.”

Morgana smiled and nodded curtly. “Give me his hand.” She crouched in the mud, her rain-laden cape pooling around her boots.

The standing man tugged back the blanket, offering his comrade’s limp hand to Morgana.

“Where did he fall?” She addressed the man hovering over them, although her gaze was locked onto the motionless one-eyed soldier’s unflinching stare.

“We were one of the troops fighting with the sidhe who took Merlin.”

She nodded, her wet hair brushing across her cheek. “You fought well.”

She squeezed the man’s fingers between both her hands, feeling the bones and flesh shift in her grip.

“What’s his name?”

“Owen, my lady.”

“Owen,” she repeated softly. “How long has he been like this?”

“Two days, my lady.”

“And he wants a swift end to his suffering?”

“I believe so. I know death is not something you give lightly, my lady.”

“I’ll make this quick.”

And then she closed her eyes and lifted the locks inside, tugging power from the earth below, spiraling it through her body, sending it ripping into the man at her feet. His frame stiffened as cold green light surged through his fingertips, sparking up his arm, circling his heart. The remnants of his mouth curled into a half-smile.

[][][]

The oily tent flap slapped closed behind her.

Morgana did not need to peer into the dim candlelight to recognize the two shapes on the narrow cot. The noises filling the tent told her enough. But she looked anyway. She stared at the long golden hair swaying rhythmically back and forth over the thin, muscled back that she knew so well. Her tongue knew the texture of every scar marked there: the long white one snaking down her spine, the wide faded red one across her shoulder.

“You’re welcome to join us,” a low voice from the bed grunted, breaking Morgana’s reverie.

She shrugged and unclasped her cape, hanging it to dry in a corner. “My answer stays the same, Cenred, not in this lifetime,” she said with forced lightness as she kneaded at the stiffness locking up her neck and left shoulder.

He groaned and the cot creaked under them.

Morgana paced over to them, hungrily taking in the sight of Morgause undulating, eyes closed, her small breasts splotched with angry red bite marks, just as she liked.

Cenred’s large hands clung to the bony points of her hips as she rode him.

“She was worried about what you were getting up to, you know,” he panted, tearing his eyes off Morgause’s face to glance up at Morgana.

Morgana threaded her fingers through Morgause’s soft hair and then yanked hard, turning her head to the side so Morgause’s lips were tilted up to face her. Morgause kept her eyes closed.

“I’ve told you to stop worrying about how I use my powers,” Morgana hissed, leaning forward to hover just over Morgause’s lips.

Morgause captured her lips, moaning into Morgana’s mouth, her tongue edging between Morgana’s lips, tangling warmly with Morgana’s.

“You taste like magic,” she exhaled harshly over Morgana’s lips. “You gave someone death. Damn it, Morgana I told you not to. . .” she rocked more quickly, opening her eyes to glare at Morgana.

Morgana stepped away, turning her back on the couple, running her fingers through her dripping hair and over her blood-stained trousers and threadbare tunic as she whispered a drying spell.

“. . . Not to lose a single one. I know, Morgause,” she said flatly.

She moved to the back of the tent to gaze at the roughly hewn table littered with maps and the remnants of dinner—a plate of cheese, sausage, and bread. She sighed as her finger traced the sketch of a castle on the faded parchment. Tilting her head, she examined the layout of miniature figurines scattered over the map. “So here we go again,” she mused to herself, “attacking the starving fortress.”

Morgana closed her eyes against the memory of Merlin’s words earlier that evening.

“Do you know what they call you?” Merlin had asked in a low voice, glaring at her through the space between the bars. “They call you the cruel healer. The woman who leads men into battle and won’t let them die. They say the pain of battle your men experience is worse than walking through fire.”

“And you’re so much better than I am? Hiding your magic, using your skills against your own kind?”

“At least I don’t have delusions of ruling people with pain. Your pretensions to the throne are laughable. Camelot would never choose you over Arthur. How will you lead Camelot? With fear?”

“I will free Camelot from Uther’s tyranny. That’s why these men are here to fight for me.”

Behind her, Morgause keened, sucking in air between her teeth. Cenred’s shuddering groan rang out through the tent.

Stillness reigned and then the bed creaked again.

Moments later, she felt Morgause’s naked chest press into her back, her arms locking around Morgana’s waist. Morgause stroked Morgana’s hair away from the right side of her neck and nipped lightly at her neck.

“Why won’t you take me seriously about stopping every death?” Morgause growled against her skin.

Morgana shrugged her shoulders and unhooked Morgause’s arms, sidestepping her embrace and spinning to face her.

Morgause’s naked skin, flushed from sex, glowed in the flickering light.

“He wasn’t even in my squad, he was . . . he was just a mess of blood and bones,” Morgana said quietly, biting the inside of her cheek. “He was no use to us.”

Morgause crossed her arms in front of her naked chest.

“They’re always of use to us. Always. Your gift, Morgana, your gift will be the power that slays Camelot.”

“My gift?” Morgana scoffed. “There are so many things I could be doing with my power, so much pain I could be stopping. And yet you call what you ask me to do healing.”

“How many times do I have to sketch out the big picture for you? The picture that’s bigger than that soldier’s finite pain tonight, or yours for that matter,” Morgause intoned softly.

Morgana inhaled loudly, feeling the rise and fall of her own chest, the quick tattoo of her heart. “You don’t . . .”

“I don’t what?”

“You don’t know what it . . . fuck, you just have no idea . . .”

“No idea about what?” Morgause said gently in that voice that never failed to make Morgana want to crumble, want to drag Morgause to bed and curl into her, to press her lips to the tendons in Morgause’s throat.

Morgana swallowed and glared at the tent fabric beside Morgause’s head, refusing to meet her eyes, willing herself not to give in this time.

“How it feels,” Morgana whispered blankly. “What it’s like to eat their pain, to pour life into them, to force suffering. Death. Death would be easier. Giving them death is like rocking them to sleep. Refusing them death is like . . . I don’t know how much longer I can do this. . . . I can’t, I can’t do it. They deserve to die.”

Morgause stepped into Morgana’s space, cradling Morgana’s cheek with cool fingers. “But they’re not here to die. They’re here to fight for you.”

“And look how I reward them, by denying them an honorable death,” Morgana scoffed before closing her eyes against Morgause’s soft touch.

They stood silently for a moment, frozen next to each other.

Leather creaked beside them and Morgana opened her eyes to see Cenred standing at the other end of the table, doing up the lacings of his tight breeches as he surveyed the wooden figures on the table.

“She’s right, you know. Those warriors, _your_ warriors battle for the right to fight in your squad. They would die for you, and you do them the honor of not letting them die. You can’t stop leading them now.”

Morgana frowned. “You don’t get to tell me what to do.”

“Shh love, he’s just repeating what I’ve already said.” Morgause rubbed circles down Morgana’s clothed arm.

Morgana shook her head.

“You cannot fail us or your men now. You cannot. Not when we’re so close. With Merlin taken and bound, we are primed for victory,” Morgause said, her voice hardening to steel.

“Or don’t you want that, Lady Morgana?” Cenred asked wryly, stepping closer to the two women.

“I want it more than you’ll ever know or understand,” Morgana snarled.

“Morgana!” Morgause’s strident voice cut through the insult that was forming in the back of Morgana’s throat. “Cenred.” She wrapped a hand around both their arms.

“Is this the way to prepare for battle? Our final battle?”

Cenred scrubbed his face and retreated several steps. He turned to survey the figures and maps on the table.

“Morgause, are we agreed on how to split up the druid forces?” he asked tightly.

Morgause nodded. “Half of the druids will fight alongside Morgana’s and my squad as we breach the castle. With Merlin gone, the druids can easily dismantle the wards he left. The rest will ride with you against Arthur.”

He nodded, then bowed with a flourished hand gesture.

“To victory, then,” he said with a cocky grin before striding out of the tent.

Morgana planted both hands on the table; sagging forward she plucked the smooth wooden figure with dark black hair from its position and turned it over in her fingers.

Morgause shifted away behind her. Morgana registered the rustle of clothing, but refused to give into the temptation to turn and stare. Neither spoke in the silence of the tent.

Clad in a sheer red robe, Morgause nudged her shoulder against Morgana’s. “You’re to stay in the back, you hear?” She curled her fingers around the piece in Morgana’s hand, and planted it in the cluster of figures outside the castle. “We’ll move in from the south, bashing the gate, storming the bridge. We’ll need everything you’ve got to keep the men in the front lines alive. Please, Morgana. ”

“Do you really think this war will finally end tomorrow?”

“Yes. Uther will die. Camelot will fall. I am sure of it.”

Morgana swallowed. “Then tomorrow I shall once again give everything I’ve got,” she said flatly.

“You wield so much power,” Morgause purred. “It’s amazing to watch, to feel, to see the men reanimated around me.”

“And after Camelot falls, it will really begin. Then I will make everything right.”

“They’re all here for you, Morgana.” Morgause brushed past Morgana to the tent entrance, jerking it open, inviting in the cold rainy air. She gestured into the twilight.

“For you.” She lifted her chin, her brown eyes flashing.

Morgana peered at the shadowed rows of tents that reached down the hill and clustered in the valley. Something twisted deep in her gut. Despite the onslaught of rain, the occasional campfire dotted the landscape, a lone soldier loped through the rain, his chain mail a glint in the dying light.

“Druids, sidhe, warriors that Uther has wronged, Cenred’s men, all the dead the earth would give me. All united to put you on Camelot’s throne, my love. All united by the promise of a Pendragon heir who will reinstate the old religion.”

“The men, they’re tired.”

“This war will end tomorrow and it will end well. You can reward them then. Now come to bed and finish what Cenred barely got started.”

“I don’t know if. . .”

Morgause cut off her off with a fierce kiss, demanding and reverent.

[][][]

The battle breathed around Morgana.

Every warrior in Morgana’s unit was reduced to a small pinprick in the landscape of her mind. She held them all enveloped in her warm sphere of power that stretched from the windy sky above them to the loam trampled under their feet. Every bloody wound, every cleaved limb, every blunting blow to the head registered as a mark of pain in her body. Eyes rolling back in her head, she read the pattern death mapped out inside her. Her vision blurred white as she channeled the power of the earth into them—regrowing limbs, grafting skin, clotting flowing blood, clearing minds, refusing to let them give over to stillness, refusing to let them cease surging forward.

Three towering soldiers flanked her, dragging her twitching form as the squad gained inch after inch on the Knights of Camelot.

[][][]

“I wonder what his face looked like when he died.”

She had felt the final blow as though dealt by her own hand. Morgause’s sinew had split open his chest, her sword tearing through his chain mail. Morgana’s hand had throbbed as she had poured the strength of the earth into Morgause’s muscle.

Supported on Morgause’s steady shoulder, Morgana stared at Uther’s broken body, ringed by the corpses swathed in red on the cobblestones of Camelot’s courtyard.

The sheer emptiness that she always became after battle felt good, felt right for this moment.

Around them their soldiers heaved shuddering, unnatural breaths, their bodies patched together one too many times by earth and magic.

“The Prince refused to be taken, my lady.” Cenred appeared at her side, his leather ripped and bloodstained, his face pale under stubble.

“Did he die?” Morgana asked hollowly, steeling herself not to think of Arthur’s voice when it gentled or the way he stretched out every syllable of her name, holding it in his mouth, like he had all the time in the world just to say it.

Morgause’s grip at her waist tightened.

“No, my lady. Most of his men did, but he escaped.”

“How?” Morgause ground out, shifting forward to glare at Cenred. “How did Arthur escape?”

“Magic. We had him surrounded. His men dead by his side, he faced off, sword in hand, bleeding from more wounds than one man could ever survive. And then a gust of wind blew up, blinding us. When we could see, he was gone. It happened so fast, the druids could do nothing to counter it.”

“Merlin,” Morgana growled. “He is one who deserved to die. We should have killed him when we had the chance. The means he has managed an escape.”

“It’s no matter. The victory was decisive. Camelot is yours, Lady Morgana,” Cenred said, rocking back on his heels.

“With the Prince still alive, your claim to the throne will be tenuous at best,” Morgause bit out. “Cenred, send a troop after him. Ten druids and ten soldiers should do it. Tell them to catch Arthur and Merlin whatever the cost. Tell them to aim to kill.”

Morgana closed a weak hand over Morgause’s gloved fist. “No. Let him go.”

“The crown will never be truly yours as long as Arthur lives.”

“I will not make decisions out of fear.”

“Morgana,” Morgause pleaded lowly.

But Morgana just shook her head, and then slowly turned to meet her gaze. “No.” She paused. “Am I now Queen of Camelot?”

Morgause nodded slowly, narrowing her eyes without breaking the stare.

“Build a pyre for the dead,” Morgana commanded her men. “Morgause and I will be in the throne room preparing to make an announcement to the people of Camelot.”

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Queen of Air and Darkness (the art of siegecraft remix)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/406970) by [Netgirl_y2k](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Netgirl_y2k/pseuds/Netgirl_y2k)




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